Comments (47)

Maj. J. Logon:

It was the unexplained pie pans, maybe. I don't know what had tipped her hand, but I knew that there was more to her fillings than cherries and sugar. She always seemed to have... what? too many cookies and not enough time to to have baked them? No... It was the soaps. She never missed them and yet never missed a bake sale. And nobody... nobody was this cheerful ALL THE TIME!

You ran with it! Nice work. I think I can see a Betty Crocker angle working where Kurtz's mother extorts Aunt Jemima into a hit assignment. Maybe she takes out a PTA fund raiser, causing a shortage of muffins.....

The idea has potential, could be pretty good as long as it's kept to a mock-realistic parody theme. Might be complicated to keep the high level running through a full novel length... not easy, but could be a blast.

You've officially done it. I now go to this site before C&F. I wasn't sure what I liked better about the political cartoons, my dead-on political views or the awesome drawings of the cartoons themselves. I know now that I'm drawn more to the artwork and I think I'm proud of that. Politics these days can get you down and I definitely don't want it to be front and center all the time. GREAT SITE. It's inspiring.

"I think I knew", Kurtz thought as he took a long, thoughtful drag on his diet Popsi, "that I was getting in too deep when the cigarette boat stopped at the Cuban Lime Orchard in Key West. I checked the action on my Daisy Red Rider, more out of nervousness than habit, and stepped out into the trees..."

It wasn't until the ex-KGB agent showed up in the living room (on Mothers' Day, no less) that Kurtz suddenly began to understand why so many Ambassadors' wives had always taken part in his mother's charity fund-raising bake-sales; surely not a high priority activity along Embassy Row yet back they came back time after time, always hanging around for the coffee klatsch-cum-gossip session afterwards -- and what kind of gossip had been exchanged all these years was now becoming hideously clear, judging by the Russian's tightly grim expression.

"Something is out of place here", Kurtz thought as he took out his 12th slimjim of the night. What was it? The cars all seemed ordinary enough: Mercedes, BMW, the like. But then he saw it: An old school Panhead Hardtail chop with the ape hangers and the plate that read "B8K SALE".

It had been one of those days when all the weather could do was drizzle on my investigation. The trail had turned cold. The Boss was chewing on my milk duds while looking over my shoulder. I had spent the day trying to see the pattern in the seemingly random drive-by muffin toppings between the competing Red Hats and Purple Hoodies but had found nothing. Then came the knock on the door that was usually followed by a a saxaphone solo and a pin up body. She didn't dissapoint. "Hi", came a voice fit to melt the rest of my milk duds. "I'm Betty. Betty Crocker."